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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27145181">A Wilde Landing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueVigilante/pseuds/RogueVigilante'>RogueVigilante</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And that caused a significant amount of inflection, Gen, Happy Ending, Implied Background Character Deaths, Near Death Experience, RQG 174 spoilers, Wilde's fine guys, minor sad themes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:44:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,732</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27145181</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueVigilante/pseuds/RogueVigilante</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilde barely survives the airship crash, which has a resounding impact on his perceptions of himself and the world.</p>
<p>A Wilde lives AU! Because we can never have too many in memory of our favourite NPC bard (and yes, there's a legit reason he lives).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The London and Other London Outstanding Mercenary Group | LOLOMG &amp; Oscar Wilde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Wilde Landing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wind in his face, Oscar Wilde holds on tight to the railing as the airship plummets towards the clearing that rests just beneath the clouds. Almost instinctually, he checks the harness again, making sure that every buckle and strap is fastened tight. He’d like to believe that he’s just being cautious, that everything is going to work out fine. However, he’s not so sure. It might have something to do with the fact that they are plummeting at a ridiculous speed towards a clearing just below cloud cover in a no-longer functioning airship. But that was just a hunch. A nervousness builds up inside the pit of his stomach, and Wilde finds his fingers tightening around the handrail. A sense of impending worry and uncertainty that wraps around his heart and chest and whispers to him to check the harness one more time.</p>
<p>Wilde does so, light fingers loosening from the cool metal to run themselves across the various buckles and straps. Everything’s tight and in perfect condition.</p>
<p>There’s nothing else he can do, except stand there and wait for the crash. If he tried anything though, he’d just get in the way. As much as he’d never admit it out loud, he’s no airship pilot or mechanic. Well, he would admit he doesn’t know a thing about how the engines work, but ever since Zolf had shown him the basics of steering The Revenge, Wilde had privately been enjoying himself immensely. He might not have had Zolf’s skill, but he did fancy himself a better captain than Earhart. Even if it wasn’t strictly true. Still, having something to do would be better than this waiting that seemed to stretch on forever.</p>
<p>Looking around the ship as a distraction, he can see Zolf at the helm, white hair whipping backwards in the wind and a look of determined concentration on his face as he struggles with the tilting airship. In front of the airship flies Hamid and Skraak, Hamid’s arms outstretched as he summons small globules of light that disappear into the clouds, guiding Zolf to their landing zone. It seems such a steep descent. Looking at Hamid, Wilde can almost imagine the faintest of bronze wings holding him aloft, his heritage suiting him well. The rest of the crew, minus Cel, are scattered across the deck of the airship, fastening themselves to the guidelines and masts with a hurried efficiency. He watches one of the kobolds scampering back and forth between its fellows, checking buckles and ropes, and helping to tighten them when they seemed too lose.</p>
<p>The thick rope he’s attached to suddenly tugs as two figures clip themselves in beside him. Barnes and Carter. The pair give Wilde a small nod of solidarity, and Wilde nods back. There’s a small part of the old him that wants to give a wink, to hide his worry and emotions behind an illusion of a salesman smile. A part of him that had unfortunately been coming back ever since the remainder of L.O.L.O.M.G. dragged themselves out of the past and into this mess of a world. But he’s gotten very good at pushing his visible reactions down until he’s certain that it’s safe. So he does, hiding his emotions instead with a stoic expression and turning back to watch the fast approaching clouds, and letting his fingers tighten on the railing one more, lest they shake.</p>
<p>That feeling of worry spreads, winding its way from his chest and stomach to settle in his bones. As it moves, it twists and warps, taking on a strange shape that Wilde can’t identify. He wants to still call it worry about being in another dangerous situation. But it’s never felt like this. The worry, the uncertainty, the fear is all there, all a familiar weight. But there’s a chill to it, a calmness that throws Wilde off and sends a shiver through his spine. Perhaps it’s just that, in this situation, there’s nothing he can do besides stand and wait for the crash. Except that’s not it. Instinct is telling him that this is something else. A warning.</p>
<p>Wilde generally listens to his instinct in the sense that it’s a form of advice and little more. Sure, it’s saved his life more than a few times, but fighting in this world requires more than a gut feeling. And the last time he truly trusted it… Well, he’d earnt his scars and the knowledge of how to survive. Logically, he knows that there’s nothing else he should do. He knows he should ignore it, knows it’s nothing more than a natural response to this situation. But that feeling burns, wiping out everything else he should be feeling. He can’t even feel the chill of the wind anymore, the hug of the harness, or the cold metal of the handrail. Just that not quite cold shiver of something that’s on the tip of his tongue. An emotion that Wilde suddenly recognises with a blinding clarity.</p>
<p>Dread; mixed with something unidentifiable.</p>
<p>The world suddenly slows, the movements of the crew becoming suddenly sluggish and slow in the precious few moments that Wilde has to decide what he’s going to do next. He can ignore it, trust in the skills of Zolf and the sturdiness of the harness, and hope for the best. Trust himself in the hands of others. But Wilde’s not done that for a long time, and there was something about the feeling that is too big to ignore. It was like someone had walked over his grave and was now having a picnic on it. It yelled at him to listen. Still, logically, there wasn’t much that he could do, harnessed to the side of the ship and magic bound in pretty metal shackles.</p>
<p>Magic.</p>
<p>The silver key bumps against his chest. The blacksmith who’d turned the anti-magic shackles into simple cuffs had initially been against giving it to Wilde; but had quickly relented. Wilde wasn’t trusting that key to anyone but himself. Before everything happened, he’d imagined it was only a temporary solution, something to help him sleep while he figured out exactly who was responsible. Then everything had gone <em>blue veins</em> and suddenly his personal problems didn’t exactly seem much of an issue anymore. Although there had been a singular night that Wilde had taken them off, over a year ago, only to find out that whoever had been cursing him was still doing it. Spiteful pricks.</p>
<p>But right now, that didn’t matter. He knows he shouldn’t take them off, that they’re there for a reason and that if anyone is tracking him, then the last thing he needs to do is broadcast his location to them. He knows logically that he shouldn’t touch the key, that he should trust in the skills of the people around him. But why did that suddenly feel like the wrong move? Why was it changing now, when for the last few weeks his instincts had been saying to trust the others? Why was Wilde even considering listening to it now, when he’d only taken instinct as advice for over a year now?</p>
<p>Grasping the key, Wilde makes a decision he knows he’s going to later regret. Quickly removing the chain from his neck, he bends down and shoves it into the lock. Behind him, the voice of either Carter of Barnes calls out, only to be quickly lost in the wind. Time is back again, moving at a rapid pace as the clouds hurtle closer and closer. With deft efficiency, Wilde completes the first lock, letting the thick metal fall to the deck with a clang. He moves to the second lock, suddenly aware of how light his first leg feels. He’d gotten so used to wearing them that, despite being light, removing them felt like part of his leg is now missing. The Revenge hits the clouds, Wilde’s vision going white as he shoves the key into the other lock. It comes off with a simple click, and magic returns to Oscar Wilde.</p>
<p>He was expecting a rush, a force of ecstasy, a slamming of power returning. Except that it isn’t. It’s like the next breath he takes is the first breath he’s ever truly taken, full of chill and sweetness. He can feel the Weave around him, twisting though the ship and the passengers. It is full of promise and potential. It is the embrace of an old friend that Wilde has long forgotten, a subtle warmth. He can’t stop himself straightening with a deep breath, with a genuine smile running across his face. He feels alive. How had he felt like this for years and never noticed it? How had he taken all this for granted? It’s almost with reluctance that Wilde reaches down to grab the shackles, the knowledge that they would soon return to his legs dampening his mood slightly. Although, he notes with interest, that the dread has evaporated in the warmth of his magic.</p>
<p>The cloud cover breaks, and Wilde realises that Hamid wasn’t exaggerating. The ground is too close, the ship too fast, the tips of trees are barely skimming the bottom of The Revenge. Suddenly the airship tilts, a tilt that Zolf struggles to correct in the low altitude, causing the ship to hit the top of the tree line at an angle. It spins, the side of the ship that Wilde is not attached to suddenly becoming the front as it crashes into the top of the trees, and throwing Wilde, Barnes, and Carter forward until they are all stopped by their harnesses. Wilde can’t hear anything over the cacophony of breaking trees that echoes through his eardrums and the surrounding forest, drowning out the quiet. In front of him, the front wing snaps off, skidding forward slightly as it drops, only to be quickly lost beneath the airship. There isn’t even time to recover, to brace for impact before…</p>
<p>CRASH.</p>
<p>The Revenge hits the ground, throwing Wilde forward again. Throwing Wilde further forward than it should have. Surely the harness would have caught him by now?</p>
<p>In that instant, Wilde realises two things. One, the rope connecting Wilde, Barnes, and Carter to the ship isn’t strong enough to support the weight of all three of them slamming into it at the same time and has now broken, sending them all flying through the air.</p>
<p>And two. The mast is directly in front of Wilde.</p>
<p>Before he has a chance to react, Wilde slams into the crows nest at full speed. It connects just below the hips, sending a sharp but excruciating pain through his legs. A pain that very worryingly doesn’t stick for very long. It could be adrenaline, or something far worse. But Wilde doesn’t have time to think about that now, that is a problem for a future Wilde. Right now, he’s hurtling through the air, the collision with the crows nest removing much of his momentum, causing him to fall hard towards the ground as the ship skids away from him. Luckily, Wilde has an answer to this as he whistles out a few notes. A simple spell. He’d mainly learnt it to help add to his dramatics, a spectacular entrance that was different from most of his usual illusory effects. Except that this particular spell had saved his life on more than one occasion, mostly by aiding him when running away from personal situations that gone south. It seemed that the old Wilde believed that some people simply couldn’t take a joke. However, this Wilde was more likely to side with the insulted.</p>
<p>Whistling out a simple two note tune, the Weave of magic around him answers, catching him in his fall as Feather Fall takes effect. It’s not a sudden jarring movement from fast to slow, but more like he is slowly transitioning from a mad fall to a controllable speed. It doesn’t change his trajectory though. Still, it does give him a chance to assess his surroundings. He can see figures, Barnes and Carter, the red streaks of Kobolds, the pink cannonball that is Azu, all flying into the tree line at the far end of the clearing as they are thrown from the ship. He sees the flash of Hamid as he darts towards the falling Kobolds and the brace of Zolf as he struggles to hold onto the wheel.</p>
<p>Pointedly not looking at what he’s certain is his damaged and shattered legs, Wilde instead took down and assesses his landing zone. His heart skips a beat. The broken wing of the airship had continued to skid forward after it had disconnected from the main body of the airship, before falling to rest directly beneath where Wilde was heading. The lurid green of one of Earhart’s spikier additions glinting beneath him. He’s on a direct collision course with it, and Wilde knows that it’s a fatal one. Wilde twists his body, thrusting his arms out towards the imminent danger. It comes, closer and closer, calling to Wilde to just accept it. To let Fate claim its prize. Wilde mostly ignores it, waiting and counting the seconds until impact.</p>
<p>3… 2… 1…</p>
<p>The second it’s in reach, he pushes out his hands and shoves his entire body to the right. The metal cuts deep into his palms with a white-hot pain that is quickly swallowed by nothingness, although he’s successful in moving himself out of its path. Instead his back slams into the metal of the wing with a loud clang, knocking any breath he has left from his chest as he bounces off. Moments later, the icy cold claims him as he skids to a halt, face down in the snow.</p>
<p>Rolling onto his back, Wilde stares at the sky and the metal above him. He doesn’t feel the cold of the snow or the pain of his legs that he should logically be feeling. That should worry him, although it doesn’t. Instead he’s drifting, the dark edges of unconsciousness closing in around him, offering the relief of nothingness. He wants to accept it, to float away in it until Zolf or Azu find his probably very broken body and heal it. Except unconsciousness doesn’t claim him, leaving him suspended above his body. Instead all he can see is the green of the metal spike above him, a broken body hanging off it and a coat flapping gently in the breeze. It’s him. Or more precisely, what he should have been.</p>
<p>He should be dead.</p>
<p>This wasn’t some dangerous and deadly situation that Wilde had survived. This wasn’t like every other time, where quick words or quicker legs managed to somehow get him out of the situation alive. This wasn’t him surviving through any form of talent. This was pure luck, pure instinct, pure chance. By all rights, Wilde shouldn’t be lying on the snow, barely conscious but alive. He should be up there, a corpse to be discovered by the survivors and to be buried in a small grave that none would ever find again. Nothing more than a headstone and a few memories marking that he ever existed. Everything else gone.</p>
<p>Facing death like this put everything into a strange perspective. Realistically, Wilde had always known that he was unlikely to reach some ripe old age of retirement. Even before the world broke, his work with the Meritocrats and his own personal amusements had made him a considerable number of enemies. One of them would get him, eventually. Although he’d always imagined it being some grand spectacle, going out with a bit of a bang. Something memorable. Then, when the world changed, Wilde knew that the best he could hope for was a crossbow bolt in the back of the head. But there was always a small part that wanted to believe that he’d survive, that he’d figure it out. Even if he tried very hard to ignore it. This. This was something else, a wake-up call from reality. A reminder of just how real his own mortality actually is.</p>
<p>And how small he seemed. Would he even be mourned? Or would heads just solemnly nod before everyone moved on with the necessity that he now so often displayed. Wilde had seen Hamid and Azu grieving Sasha and Grizzop, small words and unfinished pauses waiting for an answer and extra glasses poured by accident. The way they held onto each other like if they let go then they’d lose even more than they already had. And they’d only lost two people, but those two people mattered more than the world to them. Would anyone do that for Wilde? Carry his memory into the next adventures and whisper small words to his ghost in dark. He doubts it.</p>
<p>For some reason that brings a small tear to eye. Not that he’s vain, that he wants to be remembered in a grandiose fashion, but rather that he’s pushed everyone away. The threat of betrayal and the people he’s lost convincing him that it’s necessary. Closing himself off from the world to protect himself from it. But now he wonders if that was the right choice. His mind drifts to Hamid and Azu, who didn’t know how this new world worked and who understood and befriended with ease. To Zolf, who had begun slowly opening up again to his old teammates. Zolf, who’d tried to get him to reconnect with the part of himself that he’d lost, the part that had always annoyed Zolf. Remind him not to fall into this new person he wanted to be, a person who didn’t get hurt. The person who pushed people away, who smiled only when he thought others couldn’t see. The emotionless and exhausted leader.</p>
<p>But Wilde knows in his heart that that had started long before the world ended. He may have changed his outward appearance, but Wilde knows that he’s always pushed people away. Has always hidden himself behind walls of illusions and joke. Sharp words and large smiles. Moving on from one place to the next, a notebook full of acquaintances but never a true friend. Then he’d met L.O.L.O.M.G. who’d been annoying and tiresome in a way that amused Wilde. In a way that he’d mostly treasured. The jokes and barbs thrown at each other done with light smiles, under all that frustration. They’d been the first to notice his curse and had tried to help him. To make sure he was alright in a way his previous acquaintances never had. The way a friend might. And he’d thrown up an illusion and lies to hide behind, because he didn’t know what else to do. He’d pushed them away. Then the world changed and he'd pushed everyone away, let his outward persona feed into who he'd now become. Don't feel emotions and you can't get hurt or betrayed. Right? </p>
<p>And where did that leave him? Dead in the snow apparently.</p>
<p>Wilde drifts, floating up towards his own body. He reaches out a hand that doesn’t exists, running it down the scarred face before him. It looks so peaceful. Would that fate really have been so bad? To have an end to it all, and to just rest. To never have to worry about any of this again.</p>
<p>Pain.</p>
<p>White hot pain erupts though his body, followed by the familiar blessed warmth of divine healing. It holds Wilde tight, pulling him back into his own body with a gentle tug. His legs throb and his hand burns, and the icy wet cold of the snow soaks into his bones as he comes back into the bright light of consciousness, a familiar face looming over him. Zolf, the final glows of golden light evaporating from around him and the worry and relief evident on his face. He’s suddenly aware how much his head is pounding, like a dance party gone on far too long and that has now decided to move all the way down his back. Involuntarily, Wilde gives out a small groan of pain before smiling back at Zolf, suddenly finding himself joyous that he’s also still alive. If he wasn’t so tired and is his limbs didn’t feel like jelly, then he would have given a small mock salute.</p>
<p>Zolf responds with a grim nod, before turning, obviously to look for the rest of the scattered crew. He stops, eyeing Wilde’s legs for a moment. In any other moment, Wilde might have made some heavily innuendoed comment, although right now it’s clear that he’s eyeing his ankles. And the lack of anti-magic shackles. Anti-magic shackles that Wilde’s only now just realising he’s lost during the crash. Ah.</p>
<p>“Glad to see you survived,” Zolf says after a moment before turning away.</p>
<p>There’s an implication that Wilde’s going to need to put those cuffs back on, probably sooner rather than later in case they’re tracking him. But still, the relief in Zolf’s eyes at seeing him alive is something that Wilde didn’t miss. He smiles, relaxing into the snow and letting the icy cold numb away his pain for a few moments longer. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps he would be missed. Perhaps he does have people that do care about him more than a simple, desperate arrangement, and a desire to save the world.</p>
<p>And perhaps he cares about them in return, more than he’d ever previously admitted to himself.</p>
<p>There’s a flash of red light and a scream of pain and grief. Hamid? The reasoning was clear as day though. There had been casualties. Wilde suddenly remembers the pink bolder that was Azu flying off the ship. Was she…? What about Barnes and Carter? The memory of the pair soaring through the air beside him suddenly a stark image in his mind. Could they have survived this? Wilde buries the answer deep within his mind, pushing it away. He didn’t want to lose any of them, except perhaps Earhart. No, even he would be mildly sad if the worst had happened to her.</p>
<p>Ignoring his aching pain and desire to lie in the snow for just a moment longer, Wilde begins to achingly push himself up. He needs to be there, to help his compatriots… No, that was the wrong word.</p>
<p>Friends.</p>
<p>Yes, that sounded better. If they’d still have him.</p>
<p>Something tells Wilde they would.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Wilde's Fine Guys... Yep... Definitely still alive and well... <i>sobs quietly</i></p>
<p>I would like to mention that I have never played Pathfinder. But it says bards can get feather fall so I'm running with that. For anyone who doesn't know the spell, it basically stops you taking falling damage.</p>
<p>If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a kudos and a comment. I don't bite much.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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